


Bloodline

by The_Otter_Knight



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Bleeding Effect, Community: asscreedkinkmeme, Eagle Vision (Assassin's Creed), F/M, Female Callum, Gen, Language Barrier, Past time travel, Prompt Fill, movie and game fusion, reposted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 06:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Otter_Knight/pseuds/The_Otter_Knight
Summary: A different ghost keeps Aguilar away from Callum.





	Bloodline

**Author's Note:**

> Written last year. Un-beta'd but some edits were made to the dialogue.
> 
> I'm having loads of trouble writing a summary for this.
> 
> **Prompt:**  
Where Fem!Callum is in the past or present and meets Aguilar.  
<s>Bonus 1: Aguilar is possessive or protective of Fem!Callum because she reminds him of Maria.</s>  
Bonus 2: Some sort of appearance made by Arno and his Guillotine Gun.  
Bonus 3: Some Arno x Fem!Cal x Aguilar.

It's hard to recall her time with the Brotherhood; to remember the heat of the Spanish sun and the rough feel of their leather and the bitter taste of their blades across her skin - nothing truly life threatening but their sparring matches were a touch too real, a bit too mean and brutal. She still felt phantom bruises from when Aguilar had put too much pressure behind his strikes, when she had parried too late and she bit the dust - literally. They were more prominent of memories at the forefront of her mind than the recent battles she had partaken in - the brawl in London a few days ago, the beam that she had almost fallen from yesterday. _Those_ moments felt more like a dream than anything else.  
  
Even so, Cal tried to banish the thoughts from her mind - it would do little to dwell on them. She had left that life behind the moment she made that split second decision - that decision that could have only been made in that moment of time, when everything felt infinite and so short at the same time. She had made her choice the moment she stepped through the golden coils of power that pulsed from the Apple, the moment she let herself be touched by the Apple. In that moment she was no longer a student beneath Aguilar, a member of the Spanish Creed, or even - she tried to stop the thought because it was so wrong but it still floated at the back of her subconscious - she was no longer his potential lover and he her's. She had lost everything she had gained in Spain that moment she had stepped forward - _she hadn't even looked back._  
  
In the end, she had _left_ him - all of them. Cal hadn't so much as uttered a goodbye and had instead flung herself into the the curls of the Apple's magic and trusted that the Assassins in the 16th century would ensure that they followed through on their promise to completely and utterly destroy that Apple so it couldn't be used again. Moussa had helped her get to her feet and away - they were somewhere, a bit colder .. Antartica? Except there were _buildings_ \- and they watched the Apple combust unto itself, glitch itself out in a faint golden glow, of grid marks and jagged lines that lead nowhere. Eventually it's nothing short of _gone._ It was as if nothing was there in the first place - the gateway, the memories, the very lives of the Assassins before her. They are left to watch it until it's gone and even then some; the heavy heart in her chest and the tight feeling in her throat she amounted to the effects of time travel. Not because she _loved_ Aguilar and had chosen to leave him behind for a future that was more uncertain than the past, to a world where Templars knew her face easier. No, she hadn't loved him, but she had been _close._  
  
Callum decided, afterwards, when they book a flight out of Toronto - _not_ Antartica, fortunately - and fly back to their base under assumed names and guises to not tell anyone what had happened between Aguilar and her. Moussa kept close to her, a friendly quirk of the lips told her that he was proud of her but the sentiment was weak when she thought of it herself - she wasn't proud of what she had done. She had made so many mistakes in the past, and evidently all the _right_ ones because _this_ future hadn't collapsed, but it still wore heavy on her heart. William Miles accepted her back but there was a lost look in his eyes every time the Apple was mentioned, every time Moussa or one of the other assassins show him their scorched fingertips. Whatever it was, it was a sore subject and he was all too lenient to let them have a break. The others didn't take it, but Cal did.  
  
It was in her old initiate's room that she became aware that she was, effectively, haunted. Cal had dodged hours of necessary sleep until her eyelids became heavy and even then she struggled - she worried she'd see the deaths of innocents once more behind her eyelids, or worse, feel Alan Rikken's blood on her hands again. She doesn't quite start when she felt a hand press against her forehead. The presence had been at the back of her mind, a strange weight in the room, not quite a threat but not completely docile either, but definitely something that she would have classified as 'blue' - courtesy of another Assassin's strange comments once - so it mattered little to her. She had fallen asleep easily to the murmur of another language.  
  
The days after are smooth and every once in a while she will spot Moussa or even William, but those sightings are few and far in between and more often glimpses than anything else. She said nothing of the presence she may or not have felt, because she did not recall it when the light streams in through her too-small window and onto her face. She has long since reassured herself that it was a figment of her tired imagination - and tired she must be. She did not loiter around and sleep both the days and nights away; she trained and set her blade tighter into her gauntlet and hit punching bags until her knuckles bled and even then. Nothing can get rid of the ghost of Aguilar's fingertips along her wrists or hips, and sometimes she felt like he was still there, watching her. He never was.  
  
A week became a month and still she stayed - William dropped in every once in a while and so did the other Assassins - it _was_ a home base, after all. Moussa came by and watched her train once but didn't stay long - he didn't offer to do anything with her, but there was weariness to his expression all the same when he left. The loneliness didn't hurt as much as she thought it would. Perhaps it was the phantoms that followed her thoughts, whispers of something long gone skid across her skin. If she was asked to do so, she would in turn turn her attention to the libraries and skim across the books until she found whatever they needed from them. There was a man named Shaun who dropped by and let her help him with his research but something about him was sharp and biting - it was obvious he had lost someone important to him. The aversion between William and Shaun is apparent the one time that they are both there - they lost the same person, then.  
  
She said nothing to them because the one time she even _implied_ it, Shaun had snapped with a quick, "And what of you?” There had been so much hatred - misdirected she knew but it didn't mean that it didn't hurt any less - and grief in his gaze that she said nothing and instead passed him another book. Shaun was still stiff beside her but neither of them apologized and their lives moved on.  
  
The one day that she was assigned to field work instead of the research-back up team was perhaps one of the worst days for her. Cal trained with most Assassins and could name seven from the American branch - the most common to go to the base, that was - and none of them were with her. The problem with not being a field Assassin was this: less experience. It wasn't entirely that, but rather what her memories supplied her body didn't - she remembered what Aguilar has done, what a few of her other ancestors had done from in between the sessions - just a glimpse, a rush of adrenaline and never enough to know who or what or when or where or why - but her own body _didn't._ She was unprepared for guns - crossbows were _easier_, she could tend to those wounds - and had almost fatally wounded herself in the extraction of the bullet that had torn through the small of her waist. If the world had small mercies it was that none of the Americans she knew was there to see her mess it up. Shaun wouldn't have let her live it down and she would have gathered an earful from William.  
  
All the same, she almost bled out and was rushed to a bureau to be tended to. The bureau leader had to close her wound and gradually, she got better. She definitely did notice, however, when someone unusual stood by the doorway, arms crossed across his chest and upper body hunched over enough for his face to be shrouded by his hood. Cal curled her fingers into her wound and ignored the dampness that ran along her fingers. _It's the medication or blood loss,_ she figured. She had never seen the man before and yet he stood there as if the post was familiar to him. Still, she raised a hand, a little stiff and worn from the fight and medical attention but her curiosity was high enough to give her enough energy for it. She made a couple sounds, not quite coherent sentences but hey, whatever, at least it managed to get his attention. The blue-clad man raised his head and she folded her ring finger over.  
  
"Nothing is true?" she coughed out.  
  
He hesitated long enough for her to doubt but finally he responded with something that sounded vaguely familiar and offered his own hand and a folded finger as well; a response to her statement, then. _Everything is permitted._ His demeanour changed and he seemed far friendlier than before so he approached her bedside and sat himself in the chair there. Knees apart and back fairly straight, he looked comfortable and in a sense, well respectable. Still, something felt a bit _odd_ about him. Perhaps it had been the way he sat or the shift of his movements that told him he had sheathed weapons on his person. No matter that, his robes and open movements conveyed a friendliness that she couldn't dismiss. That and he could have went for her throat if he truly wanted to.  
  
"Are you a bureau leader?" she asked him, voice hoarse and she coughed, her throat sore. His head tilted. A definite 'no'. "A mentor, then?"  
  
He responded in some other language - something that niggled at the back of her mind, something familiar and smooth. Something she would have known or had heard of recently, probably. Italian, French, Japanese - one of those, most likely. Definitely not Spanish - she would have understood the lilt of his words, the flawless seam and preamble. Instead, it seemed to move right over her head - something that she hadn't picked up, evidently. However, once it was obvious that there would be no communication between them, not with the language barrier, he settled back in his chair. The subtle inclination of his head told her all that she needed to know - she was dismissed. The slope of his shoulders said enough, though - he was disappointed. Perhaps she was too. Cal fell asleep with the side of her face pressed into her pillow, not quite focused on him but aware of his presence. The deep roll of drugs was too much to resist and she fell into a fogged sleep.  
  
When she woke up, she was alone. The other assassin was long gone, not so much of a whiff of his scent behind. It was as if he hadn’t existed. When the bureau leader stepped in to check on her wounds, she asked lightly how many assassins were there. None of them sounded remotely like the man and she knew well enough not to bring it up. Perhaps it was better this way. Besides, she just might see him later and it would be at that point that she asked him of his purpose there.

That ‘later’ turned out to be in a few days, when Aguilar’s ghost had stood a little too close, his smile a little too friendly and _real._ When his presence was warm and the weight of his hand had left a trail of heat in his wake, that with each exhale she heard him. The worst was that his gaze was full of pity and remorse. In his eyes, she could see her regret stare back at her. It had since been easy to find the small bar in he bureau, to knock back a shot of something strong and bitter, probably Scotch or Rum or something else entirely.  
  
The Assassin clad in blue stood off to the side, shoulders pressed against the wall and body at an angle. One of his ankles was crossed over the other and his arms were unsurprisingly crossed. Callum was slow to stand up, to approach him. Aguilar watched her go from where he sat and she tried to ignore the weight of his somber stare. Cal stood off to the side, stance weary and wavered more than once more out of uncertainty than fear. When it became clear that he would not acknowledge her she sighed and straightened her spine and loudly commented, “Hey, you.”  
  
A few stares tossed her way prompted her to place her palm against the wall and tip her glass towards them. The other Assassins present warily returned to their own conversations - it wasn’t as if she had directed her comment towards them, after all.  
  
_“Hello.”_  
  
Son of a-  
  
The dude was French. As if the fact that he spoke one of the fewest French words that she knew wasn’t enough, his accent was smooth and loose, fluent where a foreign speaker could never hope to achieve. _“My name is,_ uh, _Callum."_ By Ezio’s beard, it was more difficult to grasp at the language than she thought it would. The last time she had even studied French was that one year she was in High School.  
  
_“My name is Arno." _Then his words dipped into something else - a question that left her baffled and wide eyed. _“How are you, Callum?" _He slanted to the side, hefted his weight and peered at her with a lonesome, quizzical look. He's melancholic when he continues, low, _"You shouldn't drink so much." _It's an off-hand comment, insinuated that he _knew _and _understood _and _didn't reprimand her for it._  
  
Cal struggled and pulled at the basic threads of knowledge somewhere at the back of her mind. It felt like had tugged at spider webs - very little words came back to her after that. “Uh, uh - _I am_-“ She swore and knitted her eyebrows and her mouth tugged down into a tight and thin expression. Arno’s face seemed to soften, his mouth curved slightly into a bemused smile and he leaned forward and he looked about ready to say somethi-  
  
“What the bloody hell are you doing?”  
  
Cal turned and stiffened. Shaun stood not far off, his eyes squinted from behind his glasses, his expression hard and taut. His mouth was drawn in a thin and firm line, eyebrows pulled close together. She had spent enough time with him in the library to know that it was concern, not anger, that morphed his face so.  
  
But Cal knew well enough what it looked like. “Nothing,” she said, more bite than necessary. Shaun’s expression tightened into something sour. He set down the glass he had with surprising speed and took a few steps forward. Cal’s own grip tightened on her glass. She wasn’t immature enough to toss it at him then make a break for it but she had considered it. Instead, she downed it and winced at the burn at the back of her throat.  
  
“Cal-“  
  
“Is it a crime to get to know a fellow Assassin?”  
  
Shaun stopped short. Something in his face grew colder and his gaze slid to her side - then continued to slide. It didn’t stop on Arno. Cal’s gut clenched and a freezing dash of certainty settled along the back of her ribs like cold fire. The Brit’s voice took on a calculating tone, cautious and wary - as if she might snap at him. There was an exasperated look to his eyes, something soft and sad and forlorn. _Your dead buddy said something similar to you, didn’t he?_ But Cal was not stupid enough to say that. “And just who are you talking to, huh?”  
  
Cal made a motion as if to throw back her shot but she stopped short and frowned. Her glass remained empty. Was she drunk enough for this conversation? Should she go order another glass to tide her over for this? It had happened once, told to her by Sofia back when things were simpler and never again. Slowly, she came to the conclusion that no, she didn’t want to have this one-sided discussion at all. Phantom words of her singing danced behind the front of her skull. She couldn’t act out like she did then but the thought itself was comforting.  
  
_I’m losing my goddamn mind._ Instead, what she said was, “I’m tired. I think I’m going to go to bed.” Shaun’s brow knitted further and tighter together, his mouth pursed into something akin to disdain. He looked disgruntled to no end but didn’t voice it. “Good night, Hastings.” Shaun, like she expected, did not stop her. His gaze trailed after her though and his objection was evident in the way he swallowed down his drink. He had likely gone to the bar to console himself, perhaps escape his own ghosts - but the way he had looked at her told her that he saw them in her. Evidently, neither of them could escape theirs.  
  
Arno, however, followed after her. Not bodily like someone else might have thought, but his presence was at the back of her mind and in the echoes of her footfalls. _“You are not alone, Cal,”_ is what her mother had once told her and it held true. _I have my ancestors with me - but it’s not a good thing. They shouldn’t follow after me in this life - they should rest in peace and leave me be._ Shaun saw the bleeding effect in her and she had seen it herself, had figured it the moment the bureau leader said no, but yet...  
  
Cal picked up the pace and shut her door behind her, the lock a sound of deafening proportions. _I don’t want to let go of the only people who cared. _She was not alone in her thoughts, though, because she turned and Arno was there, leaned back in his chair and expression clear. With his hood down, she could get a good look at him. A rounder face, firm and straight nose, thick eyebrows, hair pulled back, long and dark, lips pulled up just slightly at the corners, flat and thin. Not because he wanted to smile but because it seemed to be his resting face. She saw herself in the slope of his cheekbones and the arch of his eyes if she strained enough but it wasn’t what she wanted to see or know.  
  
Cal didn’t know much about Arno, but a quick look in the library or a chat with Shaun would detail who and what he was. She only saw him as the man with the sad eyes, the one who seemed to disregard her favouritism towards alcohol - had he done something similar? - and who had likely been the one to talk to her when she was out cold.  
  
No, she didn’t know much about Arno or who he was, but he also kept Aguilar away and that was enough.


End file.
